


They watch us beneath the trees

by ANTchan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Beta Derek Hale, Deputy Derek Hale, Derek didn't come back to Beacon Hills until much later, Emissary to the Nemeton Stiles, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Grad students Scott and Stiles, M/M, Matchmaking Nemeton, Misunderstandings, Monster of the Week, Pack Dynamics, Polyamory, Scott and Stiles think Derek is human, True Alpha Scott McCall, Valentine shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:15:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANTchan/pseuds/ANTchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“...Dude, did I… did I just get a Valentine from Deputy Do-Me?”</i>
</p><p>Scott and Stiles have enough on their plates as it is, with grad school, the supernatural neon sign that is Beacon Hills, and the Nemeton throwing a tantrum at them every few days. They don’t need Derek Hale, the new and sinfully attractive deputy in town trying to court them for Valentine’s Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They watch us beneath the trees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annie_reckson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_reckson/gifts).



> So I wrote this back in February for the McHaleinski Valentine Exchange, and spent the last two months adding a new ending because I am horrible. But hopefully everyone likes it!

 

 

\--------------------1---------------------

 

Long weekends are, officially, the greatest things in existence. Asking Deaton for the four days off had been the best idea he’s ever had.  Scott floats gently out of sleep with the sun warm on his shoulders and the comforting scent of his bed around him, and knows there’s nothing stopping him from lying there for a few hours more.

Nothing except the mouth pressing warm, ticklish kisses to his stomach.

His eyes flutter open. All he can see is the top of a familiar head of fluffy hair and the tip of an upturned nose as he breathes kisses over his hipbones and drags his nose along the line of hair below his navel. His dick is definitely into it already, half-hard beneath the thin sheet.

“Hi,” he murmurs sleepily.

Stiles lifts his head, the sunlight hitting his eyes at just the right angle to make it look like they flash Beta gold. It makes the breath catch in Scott’s chest. “Mornin’ buddy!” Stiles chirps up at him with a mischievous smile.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Figured that was obvious.” Stiles scoots down a few inches more, pulling the sheet away and mouthing just along the hem of his boxers. “Wanted to start your weekend off with a _bang_.”

Scott hums, and reaches down to card fingers through Stiles’ hair. It’s fluffy and soft right now, which has Scott rumbling happily. “You mean your oral fixation couldn’t take it anymore,” he teases, feeling more and more awake with every second. “Don’t you have a class to teach?”

“ _Bro!_ ” Stiles scoffs with exaggerated intensity. “Classes can be cancelled. I’m the professor, dude, I have the power. Maybe I just wanted time off to do something nice for Valentine’s, _bro._ ”

Scott rolls his eyes, contemplates shoving him off the bed. “You sound like your students.”

Now the sound Stiles makes sounds downright offended. “You gonna insult me or are you gonna let me suck your dick?”

Scott giggles, and lifts his hips so Stiles can tug his boxers down. It stutters to a halt as his best friend swallows him down with a happy moan, eagerly suckling him the rest of the way to an erection. Scott doesn’t think any of his partners have ever been so delighted to suck him off. Actually, it’s hard for Scott to think of _anything_ other than the hot, wet mouth around him and how _satisfied_ he is that their lives have come to this. To lazy morning blowjobs and this harmony of friendship and sex that leaves out all the messy complications that come with a relationship.

This had come so naturally to them, just like renting an apartment together just outside of Beacon County, far enough out from Beacon Hills to finally _breathe_ and close enough to commute for grad programs. After the _hell_ that was their high school years, everything after has, miraculously, _blissfully_ , fallen into place without too many life or death situations.

It’s all so perfect and it makes Scott feel oddly emotional in the middle of this. He presses his thumb to the corner of Stiles’ mouth, affection swelling in his chest just as much as the pleasure does. It’s startling to think he can have a reaction so pure for someone who’s sucking his dick. That in something so simple as Stiles looking up at him, Scott can feel the whole world settling into place.

But everything that’s perfect and pure about it comes crashing down, as light flickers overhead. Scott doesn’t think anything of it, sure that it’s just the sunlight coming through the window, until it dips lower into his view.

Stiles wrenches off him with a yelp as his grip on his chin tightens. But as soon as he sees _why,_ he stops too.

There’s a wisp hovering above their heads. A Nemeton wisp - a messenger. Scott’s eyes burn red, an instinctual resonance with the entity even so far away.

“ _No_ ,” Stiles downright growls at it. “No. You take your little ass back to Beacon Hills.”

The wisp gives off one of its little chimes that always makes Scott’s ears inexplicably buzz. It bobs around above them.

“No, we’ve been dealing with your shit for the past month. Fuck off-- _ow!_ ” Unhappy with Stiles’ protest, the wisp dives right for his head. “You little fucker!” The wisp winds up for another pass, and Scott sits up.

“Okay, okay,” he soothes. But he can’t work up the enthusiasm to go with it. It’s been this way since the new year: the Nemeton calling them home to Beacon Hills. In the past, it’s only done that to warn them of a threat to the territory. So, given Beacon Hills’ history of deadly supernatural disturbances, they  always go running. Lately, though, the threats are nonexistent. And they… they don’t know what to do with that. There _is_ something in Beacon Hills - Beta werewolves that Scott can sense. But he can never pinpoint _where_ they are, and they don’t seem to be a threat. They’ve been there for months, and the Nemeton never freaked out over them before.

“It’s going to be nothing again,” Stiles mutters.

Scott sighs. His hard-on is on its way to disappearing at this point, and he can’t dispute what Stiles said. But… “It’s just going to keep this up until we go.”

Stiles drops his head onto Scott’s thigh with a frustrated groan. “I hate being a responsible adult.”

“Me too, dude.”

Above them, the wisp trills in triumph.

 

\--------------------2---------------------

 

They drive into Beacon Hills and straight to the Nemeton, but with zero urgency. Neither of them are surprised to find the territory peaceful. No supernatural disasters. No dangerous intruders. The werewolves are still in the territory - Scott can sense them like a chill running up his spine - but they don’t seem to be causing trouble. Stiles connects with the Nemeton, a brief, cursory communion that also gives them nothing.

Still, they can’t just go back home without covering their bases. Frustrated or not. The Sheriff’s Department is their next stop. They grab food on the way, both because neither of them stopped to eat before leaving and because lunch with Sheriff Stilinski is the only excuse they’ll need for showing up unannounced. Stiles pulls the Jeep to an abrupt halt, the frustration on his face only deepening as he takes in the two cruisers in the parking lot.

“ _Great_ ,” he groans. “Deputy Hot Stuff is here.”

“You know, calling him by his name might make him… _not_ be an asshole at you?”

“There’s no fun in that. I don’t get to see his murder brows do that inhuman ‘v’ shape if I don’t call him _something_. What should I call him this time? Deputy Hot Pants? Deputy Caveman?”

Scott bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “He’s going to kill you.”

“Ohhh, gotta keep it light, then. I set out today to blow you and kick your ass in GTA _and_ Battlefront. Can’t do that when I’m dead.” Stiles’ eyes sparkle, equal parts wicked and flirtatious. Butterflies erupt in Scott’s belly. “Maybe I should get on that now? Before we go in?”

Scott laughs as Stiles leans into his space, waggling his brows in exaggerated intention. Scott won’t even grace it with a word like seduction. “Stop it!” he hisses playfully, shoving him. “Save your flirting for Derek.”

“ _Flirting_ ,” Stiles repeats, huffing. “It’s _banter_ , Scott. My game is _much_ better than that!”

It’s really not. Ever since Deputy Derek Hale returned to Beacon Hills last year (bringing a wave of town gossip with him), he and Stiles have had this dance. It started out as Stiles deflecting whenever the human deputy got too close to whatever supernatural skirmish the Pack was fielding at the time. And now it’s something simultaneously grade school and rife with sexual tension. Which is exactly why Stiles puts a goofy little _swagger_ into his walk as they enter the building. He cocks his head as they near Derek’s desk, and Scott can feel how much it rankles him when the dark-haired deputy doesn’t even glance up. “Hey, Deputy,” he greets, honest-to-god finger gunning in his direction. “Murder anyone with that glare today?”

“Hello, Scott,” the man intones without looking.

Stiles bristles beside him. Scott has enough of a mind to push him towards the Sheriff’s office, before he tries to do something stupid like pick a fight. “Hi, Deputy Hale,” he says shyly. “How’ve you been?” Derek shrugs, but says nothing. Unsure of what to do, Scott takes the chance to usher Stiles out of the room. But he glimpses the small grin Derek has on his face as they leave, and flushes.

John greets them both with a firm hug and delight at the proffered food. But once the door is shut behind them, his smile is knowing. “Now, I know you didn’t come here just eat with the old man,” he admonishes.

“I brought you a chicken sandwich?” Stiles points out. Even after his lying has improved over the years (something Scott will always feel guilty about), he still has this way of dancing around the truth that the Sheriff can spot a mile away.

Scott, on the other hand, can’t even look at him for fear of blurting out the truth.

“Uh-huh. Well, at least it’s not tofu. And you’d better give me some curly fries if you want my help with whatever you’re doing.”

Stiles scoffs. They manage to haggle  it down to a small handful of curly fries, and spend lunch going over every report that’s come in over the last week. Nothing supernatural jumps to their attention, to no one’s surprise. There’s the usual calls of theft or domestic disturbances, the odd missing person’s case that turned out to be a runaway teen, and even a case of hikers falling into some thorns in the Preserve. But nothing that would constitute a supernatural takeover. Stiles gets fed up and excuses himself to get drinks about halfway through.

“Not what you were lookin’ for?” John asks, after Scott has dropped the last file the desk.

“No,” he sighs. “But we expected that. There’s something here the Nemeton doesn’t like. But we can’t find it. And it won’t tell us when Stiles communes with it.” He’s not sure what they’re looking for, exactly. Their knowledge of the supernatural is, at best, shaky. They’ve always done this by the skin of their teeth. Now, at least, they have an Argent bestiary, two folklore experts in the form of Stiles and Lydia, and Mason training as their Emissary. But other than run ins with Satomi Ito’s Pack, they’re sorely lacking in supernatural experiences that don’t end in death.

“Creepy,” John grumbles. Scott can only shrug. It had seemed that way in the beginning, when the Nemeton had been this lurking _thing_ at the center of a string of sacrifices. But it’s also been a guiding presence in Scott’s life from the start of this werewolf business. Stiles may be the mouth of the Nemeton, the conduit, the communion. But Scott is… something like its arm. Its intent given shape.

Yeah, actually, that does sound creepy.

Stiles hasn’t come back, which… really only means one thing. Craning his neck back to peer through the office window, Scott isn’t surprised at all to glimpse Stiles’ lithe form standing by Deputy Hale’s desk. _‘Typical,’_ he thinks fondly. He helps the Sheriff clean up, thanking him for taking the time, and heads out to collect Stiles before Derek Hale _actually_ commits murder.

He stops just outside the office. Because _what_.

They’re not arguing, actually. They’re not even doing that weird banter-slash-bad-flirting thing that Stiles always tries to initiate.

Instead Stiles is standing frozen in front of Deputy Hale’s desk, mouth hanging open and eyes trained on the bouquet of delicate dried flowers in his hands. Derek’s standing on the other side of the desk, looking _particularly_ flustered. His gaze keeps darting from Stiles eyes to the space over Stiles’ shoulder, as if looking him in the face is hard for him. The tips of his ears are turning steadily pinker with each passing second. It’s endearing and baffling all at once, and...

Jealousy surges through him like a hot knife to the gut, along with the instinctual territorial urge that screams _MINE_ so violently that Scott has to fight down the shift. It’s the trade off with these heightened powers, even more so since he ascended into a True Alpha. The aggression, he’s learned to fight back.

The jealousy?

He’s not sure what to do with that.

(Deep down, he doesn’t even know exactly _who_ he’s jealous of. No, no, don’t even consider that one.)

Derek catches sight of him then, and his expression goes rigid. The blush is definitely gone now, instead his face going pale. His hand drops from where he’d been self-consciously rubbing at the back of his neck. “Just… take it,” he mutters hurriedly to Stiles, and then bustles away in what is _clearly_ an escape.

Stiles stares after him, for several seconds after he’s disappeared from view. And then his eyes drift slowly back down to the bouquet. Scott isn’t even sure Stiles realizes he’s there, until his friend whirls around with a wild look in his eye.

“... _Dude_ ,” he croaks, “did I… did I just get a Valentine from Deputy Do-Me?”

 

\--------------------3---------------------

 

Their long weekend? It goes to shit from there. See, Stiles had _a plan_ for this weekend. He’d cancel his Friday and Monday classes and he’d give Scott the weekend of his _life_ . Sex, cuddling, lounging around in their pjs playing video games - they’d have it all. It’d be the best friend (friends who regularly fuck, anyway) getaway of the lifetime. And, yeah, _maybe_ they’d find time to come back to Beacon Hills to hang out with the Pack, or with their parents. But the _point_ was to put the whole supernatural life on hold for a weekend.

But no. The _fucking Nemeton_ had to go and throw a _fucking tantrum._

By Sunday, they’ve been called back _four times_ by the stupid tree. No matter what they were in the middle of - even _sleeping,_ as Saturday’s crack of dawn wisp proved - that little asshole of a sentient god-tree demanded their presence. For nothing. Not once did they find a threat. Which leaves them tired, agitated, and confused and…

And Scott’s acting _strange_ . Ever since Deputy Gorgeous presented Stiles with that bouquet (which, _holy shit,_ Stiles can’t even fathom that _what the hell_ ), he’s been doing that weird silent _internalizing_ thing and Stiles hates it.

“Just fucking tell me,” he grouses on their fourth trip into Beacon Hills. When Scott only clenches his jaw, he slams a hand against the steering wheel. “Damnit, Scott! I’m not _fucking stupid_ , okay? I know something’s up.”

“Just drop it, Stiles,” his best friend growls back with an Alpha’s finality.

“Oh no, _oh no_ you do not get to play the Alpha card with me--”

“I said _DROP. IT._ ”

Stiles doesn’t have to look to know Scott’s eyes are flashing red. “...Fine,” he mutters.

They don’t speak to each other for a couple hours. It’s just a lot of sullen gestures as the two of them patrol around the outskirts of the town, in the abandoned districts that supernatural intruders usually end up.

What actually ends their stalemate is Derek finding them, because somehow he _always seems to_ when they’re on the trail of something. Just seeing the familiar cruiser pull up to them in the old industrial district kind of makes Stiles want to cry. He’s exhausted, both physically and mentally, he’s just gotten into a fight with his best friend, he can’t figure out why the Nemeton is pulling this shit with them, and _he can’t handle another run in with Derek Hale right now._ He wants to turn and tell Scott to just make a run for it. But all he manages is sharing a panicked look with Scott before Deputy Too Pretty to Handle is out of his car and coming over to them.

“You guys okay?” he asks.

“Uh… yeah!” Stiles rushes to answer, shooting Scott a frantic glance. “We’re fine. Totally fine. What can we help you with, Deputy?” His voice cracks at the end. Shit. _Shit._

Derek ignores his deflection. “Did the Jeep break down? I can… give you a ride to the station if you need it.”

“No! No, we’re fine, right Scotty?” Okay, his nodding to get Scott to agree with him is kind of… manic. And not very convincing.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. “We were just… out for a walk.”

Derek’s brows do that fascinating furrow that tells them he doesn’t believe a word of that. “...In this part of town.” Somehow Deputy Greek God has this ability to ask a question without it sounding like a question at all. Any other time, it’s entertaining; but now it just sets Stiles’ teeth on edge.

“Well, you know,” Stiles shrugs, “abandoned buildings, rusted metal, it’s all so spooky and mysterious! Just perfect for a little exploration.”

“Maybe I should come with you… Make sure you stay safe--”

“NO!” they both exclaim. Stiles winces. No, that’s not suspicious _at all_.

And then Scott does the unthinkable. “Maybe I should head back to the Jeep,” he offers, to Stiles’ horror. “That way you and Deputy Hale can… talk?”

“ _What?_ ” his voice actually squeaks on the word. “No, _no_ , Scotty, you do _not_ need to do that.”

But Scott has _that_ look on his face, as if their fight earlier has vanished from his memory. It’s the expression that’s so earnest and guileless that it makes Stiles either want to scream or kiss him. Sometimes both. “But then you could…”

Stiles leans into Scott’s space and grabs him by the shoulder. “Scott,” he hisses lowly, “do not leave me alone with this man.” This unbelievably attractive man that _gave him flowers. Actual flowers._ What the hell is he supposed to do with that?!

“Don’t bother,” Derek snaps over his muttering. “I’ll go.” There’s genuine bitterness in his typically grouchy tone. Not at all like the annoyance Stiles usually hears. It makes his heart wither in his chest, and the relief that comes with Derek’s words only worsens it. They watch Derek stomp back towards his cruiser. But the deputy hesitates at the door, his shoulders tense. He reaches through the cruiser’s open window (giving them the most _amazing_ view of his ass in those uniform pants, _Christ_ ) and coming back up with a bundle in his hands. He stares at if for a few seconds, and then turns and doubles back.

Oh no.

No, no, Stiles _cannot_ handle another fucking _Valentine gift._ He knows that’s what it is from the look on Derek’s face. It’s that same, almost _timid_ expression that rendered Stiles momentarily speechless back at the station. It’s even more intense this time with the defensive set of his jaw and the downcast eyes.

Stiles nearly steps behind Scott to avoid him.

But it’s not _Stiles_ that Derek goes for.

It’s _Scott_ he offers the bundle of fabric - of leather, now that he’s close enough to see - to, his frown just a touch shy. “While I’m here,” he says, “you uh… I know you have a bike. This one didn’t fit me, but it should fit you.”

Mouth hanging open, Scott takes it, letting it unfold. It’s a leather jacket. A _nice_ leather jacket. “I…” he fumbles.

“I’ll… let you go back to what you were doing.” And Deputy Hale speedily walks back to his police cruiser. The two of them stare at him as he drives off, shocked speechless.

It’s not until he’s long gone that the they look down at the jacket still held in Scott’s hands.

“He’s never even worn it, has he?” Stiles asks flatly.

“No, I can barely smell him on it.” Scott rubs his fingers into the supple leather. “It’s… It’s really nice. I think it’s real leather?” He turns big eyes to Stiles. He looks at a loss, and yeah.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that either.

 

\--------------------4--------------------

 

He just knows that he doesn’t like it. At all. He doesn’t like the way Scott keeps _touching_ the stupid jacket on the way back to their apartment. Or the way he glances at it when they’re at home, or that he actually wears it to work on Tuesday. Even if Scott’s just as confused as he is, it still rankles Stiles. It drives him to the point of obsession, a dangerous place for him.

What the hell was Deputy Hale thinking? Was he being nice? _Too nice?_ Did he change his mind, going after Scott because Stiles can’t measure up - of _course_  he can’t measure up to Scott. Stiles isn’t even in the same _league_ as Scott. No one would want an anxiety-ridden, paranoid asshole when they could have Scott.

By the time he goes to meet Scott after work, he’s worked himself into a foul mood. And what’s worse, he can’t pinpoint _exactly_ what he’s pissed off at. Finding the root of his emotions has always been challenge for Stiles, but this time he hasn’t got a clue. Is he angry at Scott or Derek - or _himself?_ Stiles is just… he’s losing Scott again. It’s inevitable. No matter who Derek is actively _wooing_ or if either of them accept, Scott is pulling away. Stiles can feel it. And it’s like his greatest fear come to life but it’s _so much worse now._

“You’re quiet,” Scott says softly as they walk into town. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He’s lying and he doesn’t care if Scott can hear it. Instead, he jerks a thumb at the cafe down the street from them. “You wanna stop for coffee? I’m beat. This Nemeton shit and my classes kicked my ass.” Scott nods, and steps closer to wrap an arm around his shoulders and despite any misgivings Stiles has, he can’t help but melt into the touch. “Thanks, man.”

He’s ready to take it all back when they get close enough to the little corner coffee shop.

They can see Derek Hale through the windows.

“ _Fuck._ ”

Scott, ever helpful, is silent, only glancing between Stiles and the cafe.

“Nevermind, let’s just go home, Scotty. I don’t-- I can’t do this right now-- No, NO you little shit!”

There’s a fucking _wisp_ hovering merrily behind the cafe’s drainpipe. It seems to tremble in midair, like a sunny little _giggle_.

And then it darts for the door, as if it’s planning to go into a cafe _full of humans, the little fucker._ Scott and Stiles dive after it, arms outstretched to grab the Nemeton’s little tree spirit before it can ruin everything.

What ends up happening is the wisp disappears just as they stumble into the door with a cheeky little titter, and the pair of them go flailing into the coffee shop. The people inside turn to stare at them. All except Derek, who seems to be resolutely _not_ looking at them from his spot by the pick up counter. Scott clears his throat, offering a half-hearted wave to the room, but his eyes are on Derek. Stiles’ stomach sinks.

Derek continues not to even glance their way as they order, despite the not-so-subtle looks (and sullen glares, on Stiles’ part) they send his way. “I’ll pay,” Scott proposes. His hand is already reaching for his wallet, and Stiles smacks it away.

“No, dude, you paid last time.”

“I’ve got it this time,” he insists, that earnest furrow forming between his brows. “You’re having a rough day, okay? I can pay, it’s only coffee.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the barista interrupts them, making both of them jump. “They’re already paid for.”

“...What?” Scott blurts.

“The customer ahead of you paid for your drinks.”

As one, their heads swivel to where Derek is making a hasty retreat out the door with a carrier tray of coffees. Stiles may not have Scott’s superior senses, but even he can see the embarrassment and that same _infuriating shyness_ as he escapes.

“He…”

“It’s not…”

They point to each other. “Are you it’s not just for him?” Stiles asks the barista.

“No, Stiles, it’s gotta be for you. I mean he gave you the--”

“He gave _you_ that jacket!”

“It’s for both of you,” the young woman insists. And then she ushers them along to wait for their drinks. Their already paid for drinks.

_Both of them._

_What._

They should be waiting for their coffee, but in practice it’s more like an existential crisis. “I thought he wanted you,” Scott whispers.

“I thought he wanted _you._ ”

“I didn’t want it to be--”

“I didn’t want that either.”

Stiles licks his lips. “Do you… want _him_?”

“I… well I mean, he _is_ really attractive,” Scott admits bashfully.  “And nice. Underneath being a grouch.  And...” He trails off almost guiltily.

“So you want to... date him?”

“I guess… yeah, maybe. I’ve been thinking about it ever since he… I mean, maybe I’d like to try?” Scott turns those big, soulful puppy eyes on him again, pleading. He thinks Stiles is going to still be mad at him after this. But the anger is gone now, replaced with something that - in Stiles’ opinion - is worse. Uncertainty.

“Me too,” Stiles admits. “Which is okay. Because he wants--”

“--both of us. Oh my god. I mean, we could, but I just--”

“Only if you’re okay with it, Scotty. I just don’t want to--”

“--lose you. Me either.”

“Wow. You guys do this often?” The barista is back, watching their verbal tennis match with rapt fascination. She sets their drinks onto the counter. “You must’ve been dating for a long time. It’s cute. Good luck with your third, I guess.”

Stiles opens his mouth to deny that, but the words won’t form. They get that kind thing all the time. And yet, now… his heart stutters, and he knows he’s blushing. Because  Scott is watching him now, eyes trained on him in a way that has adrenaline rushing through Stiles’ veins.

“...Thanks,” Scott says, nodding the woman away. Stiles turns to make his way out, as casually as he can as if he’s just focused on his coffee. A hand slipping into his nearly makes him drop it. “Hey.” Stiles shivers at the low, gentle tone in Scott’s voice. “Do you… do you wanna have dinner with me? Like a date?”

God, this boy’s going to give him a heart attack. “You--” Stiles finally looks at him, quieted by the soft gleam in Scott’s eye. “...really?”

Scott nods. “I know we’ve been doing this no relationship thing. And I’m happy with that if you don’t want to. But… I think I’ve… I haven’t wanted anyone else for a long time.”

“Other than Derek, you mean.” Yes, he’s deflecting. Derek is marginally easier to focus on, rather than the realization that he might not be the only one who’s been feeling this _thing_ growing between them for a while now.

Scott worries his lip, and _fuck_ , Stiles has wanted to kiss his best friend before - and has, so many times - but it’s never been like this. It’s never been an ache all the way down to his toes. “I’d like to try, with Derek. And you. But you… Stiles, I would give up anything for you. I just didn’t realize how much.” Yeah, yeah, Scotty needs to be kissed. Stiles doesn’t care that they haven’t even made it out of the coffee shop yet. He leans in and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. They’ve never done chaste before. It’s always been slick and dirty, all about sex even in the most lighthearted of their tumbles.

It’s _amazing._

“A date,” Stiles agrees as he pulls back. He’s pleased to see Scott’s looking just as dazed as he feels. “Just to see how it goes. I’ve still got you, right?”

“Yeah. You always have me.”

 

\--------------------5---------------------

 

Derek _does not_ slink into his apartment building with his tail between his legs. He absolutely doesn’t. Not for the first time, he asks himself why he’s doing this; why he’s putting himself through this.

The answer, of course, is right upstairs. Even over the ominous creaking of the bird-cage elevator, Derek can hear his Pack wandering about the top floor common room, waiting for him. Erica and Isaac are bickering over what movie they're watching tonight. Boyd is as watchful and quiet as ever, but his heartbeat is a strong, steady thump in his ears. And Cora is… laughing. So softly. The sound makes his breath come short. Hearing his sister’s laughter has been so rare, so precious in the last year.

“How’d your courting go?” Boyd asks with a teasing curve to his mouth as the elevator doors open.

Derek shoots him betrayed look. “I take it back, you’re no longer my favorite. No coffee for you.” To make a point, he takes one of the coffees from the carrier and takes a sip. It’s his own, mocha with hazelnut, but Boyd doesn’t have to know that.

“I thought I was your favorite,” Cora says. Her eyes are sparkling, the grin barely contained, and it’s so different from the days when she’d first found him. It makes his heart clench.

“You’re my least favorite,” Derek lies with no intention of making it sound believable.

“Well, then I’ve done my sisterly duty then.” She plucks her own coffee from his hands, and hums as she takes a sip. “Thanks, bro.” He (playfully) snaps at her fingers as she pats his cheek. He absently hands the tray to Isaac, who smirks nastily at him - the little shit.

“So how _did_ courting those two idiots go?”

“For the last time--”

“‘ _You’re not courting them_ ,’ yeah,” Erica smiles wolfishly at him from over the rim of her coffee. With her lipstick and sharp eyes, it gives it a particularly bloody impression. “Sure seems that way. You’re blushing, _Derek~._ ” She slides fluidly onto Boyd’s lap as if he’s her personal throne. And he, to his credit, doesn’t look at all put off by the idea. He slides an arm around her waist, flashing a grin at both of them.

“You used to respect me,” Derek grumbles. “What happened to that?”

“No, I used to think you were _actually scary_ when you got all growly. I’ve learned since then.”

“I’m doing this for you, remember?”

“Maybe that’s what you tell yourself, but you think they’re ~hot~,” she needles. “You’d better think of something quick, if you wanna get them on Valentine’s Day, you secret romantic.”

Yeah, no, Derek’s not standing for this. “I hate you and regret the day I bit any of you,” he growls, leaving them in the common room for the safety of his loft.

“No, you don’t!” Four voices call after him.

No, he really doesn’t.

The past few years were one level of hell after another, but Derek can’t regret it, no matter what he says. In 2011 he’d been waiting anxiously in New York when he felt Laura’s death. It had been more painful than losing a limb, more like someone had ripped his lungs from his body. He still has nightmares about that moment; of waking up in a cold sweat on his bedroom floor and _knowing_ that Laura was gone. Peter’s death he felt soon after, in a matter of days, a second blow - not unexpected, but no less painful.

The third blow came with the rush of power that accompanied the hollow pain. With the fact that his eyes had turned red. It implied… a lot of things about how Laura had died - most likely at _Peter’s_ hands if the timing was right.

It took him years before he felt brave enough to seek a Pack. He’d moved back to California, to San Diego, ready to start over. He enrolled in the police academy. Finished his degree. And eventually found first Isaac, then Erica, and then Boyd. His sister eventually found him, and was _less_ than impressed with him.

Derek didn’t make the greatest of Alphas. He’s grown wise enough to admit that. But it was hard to work out how to be a companion, let alone a _proper Alpha_ , with Kate fucking _Argent_ \- now somehow the head of the Argent family, like something out of his nightmares - snapping at his heels every step of the way. His mistakes with his Betas culminated with them nearly dying after a run-in with Kate’s hunters. His Betas - _his sister, his Pack_ \- were all so close to death. And Derek did the only thing he could for them: he took their pain, one after the other. Over and over and over again. Until it was too much for him to take, and he lost consciousness.

When he woke, he was no longer an Alpha. His eyes were blue again. But his Pack was alive, and _healed_. And that was all that mattered - not the power, not anymore.

Which brings them to the reason they’ve all returned to Beacon Hills. They’re all Betas without an Alpha now. And while they rely on each other as Pack, that’s no way for a werewolf to live. Derek owes it to them to find an Alpha who is kinder and much more stable than he ever was.

Scott McCall, a True Alpha who's made his mother’s ancestral territory feel _whole again_ , seems like the perfect choice. Scott McCall is all Derek’s heard about through the werewolf grapevine for the past few years. He wouldn’t have considered it seriously, though, if Satomi hadn’t recommended him. And now, here they are. They’ve been lying low here for months while Derek observes the Alpha and his Emissary, gauging them, gaining their favor with little things - traditional gifts by werewolf standards. A bundle of useful herbs for the Emissary, a practical gift for the Alpha. Food, to prove Derek can bring something to the Pack.

It’s _not_ wooing, or even worse, courting.

Derek just wants to make sure his official plea to the Alpha will be well received. That’s it.

The fluttering feeling in his stomach that he gets when he sees the two of them - clever, beautiful, _maddening_ \- has nothing to do with it. Neither do the times when he can hear them admiring his looks, or his body, or his mind, agreeing that they both think him attractive. It can’t have anything to do with it, because they’re obviously together and have no room for him. They come into the station smelling of sex and affection, so comfortable in each other’s presence - warm. Inviting.

No, that has nothing to do with what Derek’s doing at all.

 

\--------------------6---------------------

 

The evening of Valentine’s Day finds Derek wandering the streets. He’s staying clear of his loft, because he foolishly agreed to let Boyd and Erica turn the rooftop into a romantic hideaway for the evening, and completely forgot that he can see the roof from his loft windows. Love his Betas though he does, he doesn’t need to see that. Or hear it. And Derek’s not the type to get morose and lonely over the holiday, but… well, he’d rather be out doing something than dwelling on it. So he’s out patrolling instead. It helps to ease the anxiety of oncoming threats (a constant worry at the back of his mind), as well as the more private worry that the McCall Pack would find him lacking.

Derek senses it before it finds him. There’s a distant tug against his senses, not quite a scent. Not unlike the pull he feels towards the moon. But it’s different than the comforting lull of the moon on his senses. No, this is more present. More sentient. Oddly familiar.

He has to duck out of the way as a little orb of light darts by him. For about five seconds he hunkers into a defensive position, snapping his fangs on instinct, before the little wisp circles back around and hovers gently in front of him. It doesn’t move to attack, only chimes softly at him, in a melody that sounds disturbingly close to _Ave Maria._

With a jolt, Derek remembers where he’s felt this before: the Nemeton. It’s the same unsettling otherness of that tree. But it’s different now, less like a slumbering beast. It doesn’t feel hungry anymore. And it… “Paige?” he whispers, throat closing tight around the word. The little sprite twists in spirals, but doesn’t answer. It can’t be her. That’s an impossibility. But it _knows_. It remembers. It whispers a melody that reminds him of a cello’s timbre. And then it flutters in front of him, and drifts down the street a ways, rotating as if it’s looking back at him.

Derek can think of at least ten different reasons why he shouldn’t follow it. But he does anyway.

He hears the music long before they reach the building. Even to human ears, it fills up the whole street. Derek stops short at the mouth of an alley, watching in confusion as the wisp drifts merrily towards the door. Why in the hell the thing seems to be leading him to a club, Derek can’t fathom. All he knows is that he’s seriously considering going home. He hates clubs. Despises them. They’re too loud to his ears and smell of alcohol and sour sweat and clawing arousal that makes his skin itch. But the wisp bobs by the maintenance door, trilling at him until he snaps the lock and wanders in.

The inside of the club is exactly the kind of thing he hates. The flashing lights sting his eyes, and he immediately has to suppress his senses to keep the music from deafening him. The club is a mass of writhing bodies and elevated dancers and heart-shaped glitter, the sign above the DJ booth happily proclaiming _Sinema._

“Why am I here?” Derek isn’t sure if he’s asking himself or the Nemeton. But when he turns to question it, he only finds that it’s vanished. What--

“Scott. _Scott._ S’Deputy Gorgeous!”

_No._

Stiles Stilinski is coming towards him with all the grace of a newborn fawn, eyes shining under the club lights. There’s an absurd little heart drawn on his face in blacklight paint, and his lips are smeared with the same as if he’s been kissing someone. That someone is Scott McCall, who’s sporting smeared paint over his shoulders and throat, and barest traces of it smeared over his mouth. His hair is mussed and his cheeks flushed, and they both smell so _good_ \- warm and aroused and happy. Derek’s chest seizes tight.

Stiles is on him before he can react, invading his space with a wild grin. He smells like alcohol. “Derek,” he coos - _coos_. “Wanted to see you. Hi, dude. You’re not in your uniform tonight? S’okay. You look good casual too, s’good.” Scott, at least, manages to catch him before he plasters himself against Derek’s side.

“You’re drunk,” Derek says without preamble.

“Drunk? Nah, nah. Just… tipsy, maybe. I feel _gooood_.” He snickers, swaying back into Scott, and promptly gets distracted with mouthing at the crooked line of the Alpha’s jaw. “Y’feel good too, right, Scotty? S’workin’ right? You feelin’ it?”

Scott’s eyes flicker red, just for a moment. He smells like alcohol as well. “Yeah, you’re a _genius_.”

Stiles all but preens. They’re so drunk. Either drunk _in love_ or just plain _drunk_ . It should be sickening, and yet Derek only feels a surge of pure affection for them. _Dangerous._

“You should feel good too, _Deputy_ ,” Stiles purrs at him. He breaks free of his Alpha, lunging for Derek with a speed he never expected. All the werewolf can do is move to catch him before he goes stumbling into the wall. Stiles pulls at his jacket insistently. “Come dance with us.”

“What? No,” Derek protests immediately. No, that would be _bad. So bad._

But the young man pouts, sticking out his lower lip in an exaggerated attempt to look pleading. “Come on~. Dance?” And then he’s pressing the long line of his body up against him, touching from shoulders to thighs. His heart leaps into his throat. All the can think about is the paint-smeared, _debauched_ looking mouth forming the words, “You feel nice.” Long, _sinful_ fingers slide over his chest, boldly dipping under his open jacket. “He feels nice, Scotty.”

“I wanna feel.” It’s the only warning Derek has before Scott joins his boyfriend. He’s at the perfect height to nuzzle against his throat, and the _idea_ of it alone does him in. Derek barely manages to stop himself from baring his throat just from Scott hovering close. His knees go weak at Scott’s pleased hum. “This okay?”

“I…” His throat feels constricted, the words choking him. Yes. _Yes._

“You want us,” Stiles breathes, awed, right in his ear. His hands are still wandering. Tapping, caressing, going lower and lower, until Derek is sure he’s going to just shove a hand down his pants. He doesn’t know what to focus on - his hands or his words. “You do, you want us. Fuck, that’s sexy.” A mouth latches onto his pulse point at the same time Stiles caresses a hand over the front of his jeans. His hips jerk, mouth opening in a gasp.

“We wanted t’talk to you,” Scott adds. “About the gifts. About maybe… working something out.”

And _that’s_ a jolt to his system. The haze of lust lifts from him, and he’s acutely aware of where he’s standing, of what they’re doing. Of how they’re not quite grinding against him, hands on him and he…

He can’t do this. Not like this. This could ruin _everything._

“I can’t--”

They both blink at him, the happily drunk sparkle fading from their eyes. “What?” Stiles mutters.

Derek takes the chance to to pull away from them, shaking his head. “I can’t,” he repeats. They reach out for him, but he’s already slipping back into the maintenance corridor he’d come in through. There’s a bitter, shameful taste rising in his throat.

He runs the entire way back to the loft. Back the Pack that he should be putting before his own desires.

 

\--------------------7---------------------

 

Derek’s plan to sneak in fails before it even begins. His Pack meets him at stairs, wearing near identical expressions of confusion and concern. Guilt, Derek’s old, steadfast friend, swamps him all over again. Boyd’s in nothing but flannel sleep pants, and Erica in a hastily pulled on robe. They both smell strongly of sex and affection and sweat, and yet they’re both here waiting for him. He’s interrupted the end of their romantic evening. There’s a good chance he’s interrupted Isaac’s too, if he ever did end up Skyping the woman he’s been having a flirtation with. He’s still dressed in his “nice” cardigan, so it’s likely. Cora brings a whole other kind of guilt. Even though she didn’t have plans for Valentine’s Day, the last thing she needs is to be burdened with even _more_ of his fuck ups.

“What are you doing?” he growls, instead of greeting them. “You didn’t need to wait up for me.” Being gruff with them is so much easier than having to admit why his heart feels like it’s sinking through the floor.

“We could feel you brooding from across town,” Cora tells him, blunt as always. “What happened?” Derek wants to curse. At them, at himself. At how strong their Pack bonds are that even when he isn’t an Alpha anymore, that they can still sense his moods so well. They should hate him. He ruined their lives and is doing it all over again. Fuck. _Fuck._

“You smell like club sex,” Isaac says. He only shrugs when Derek glares at him. He expects another comment from his first Beta - because since when has Isaac _not_ had another comment? But there isn’t a teasing glint to Isaac’s eyes this time. And his declaration doesn’t come with smirks and pointed questions. Only worry that’s growing steadily darker with every second.

“And you smell like McCall and Stilinski,” Boyd adds. His jaw is clenched tight around the words. “What’d they do?”

“Nothing,” Derek insists. The concern on their faces shifts into varying degrees of fury. And it occurs to him what _this_ must look like to them, coming home smelling of sex and misery. They don’t know _everything_ about the Hale Pack’s ruin and Derek’s life since, but he’s sure they’ve gathered enough to _guess_. “No--”

“Derek, if they hurt you--” Erica snarls. Her words slur around the beginnings fangs, her rage already tipping into the shift.

“They didn’t do anything,” he snaps. Even he can feel the way his heart spikes at the lie, and it just makes him more frustrated with himself. “Not that. They _didn’t_ do anything like that.” No, no, this isn’t how this was supposed to be. None of this was supposed to happen - he shouldn’t be ruining their chances with the McCall Pack like this. He shouldn’t be _making his Pack hate them_ before they even meet them. “It was me. I fucked this up.” The words are like a vice around his throat. He can’t be here. “They didn’t do anything wrong.”

He leaves them standing the foyer, ignoring their questions. He slides the door to his loft shut, and bolts it. It won’t block out their knocking or their calls to talk to him. But it lets him be alone. He needs to be alone right now.

 

\--------------------8---------------------

 

Their week started out exhausting, but amazing, tripped into horrible, and fell into a nightmare by the end of the week. What had been days of honeymoon-style sex and actual, honest-to-god _dates_ (and admittedly returning to Beacon Hills three more times just to check on the ever-needy Magical Tree of Blood Sacrifice) came to a crashing halt the evening of Valentine’s. Seeing Derek Hale run from them as if hell were at his heels was a quick way to sober up. But they don’t have more than a day to wallow in the rejection.

A hiker is found running through the Preserve, half out of their mind and suffering from severe blood loss. And feverishly rambling about a tree trying to murder them.

“It wouldn’t be the first time the Nemeton had a craving for blood,” Lydia immediately reminds them after the situation has been recounted. The McCall Pack has gathered for a special All Hell Could Break Loose meeting. Well, Scott, Stiles, Malia, Kira, and Lydia are the only ones in residence. Liam and Mason are still away at university. Jackson is in London touching base with his foster Pack, and Aiden has gone to babysit him (a terrible, _terrible_ idea in Stiles’s opinion). Allison is training for the Olympics in the summer, and Ethan and Danny are on their _actual_ honeymoon. But the Pups and Allison have Skyped in, so it’s enough.

“Yeah…” Allison hedges, “but the last time it had to be helped by an outside force. A Darach. And Stiles hasn’t sensed anyone messing with the Nemeton, right?” Out of all of them, Allison is the only one other than Scott and Stiles who best understands the ancient tree. A pseudo-sacrifice will do that. She’s always been a lot more cautious than the two of them, though.

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s only been me and Scott coming into contact with it. So no, the Almighty Oak isn’t performing sacrifices for itself. And I doubt with the kind of blood loss that hiker had, they somehow managed to circle around and come from the opposite direction of the Nemeton.”

From across the table, Malia scoffs. “Well, it’s not like there’s _another_ sentient tree in the Preserve that gains power through blood sacrifice either.”

That’s a fair point.

“What about those Betas you’ve been sensing?” Liam asks slowly. “The one’s you said have just been hanging out in the territory for months?”

Stiles can admit it’s a good question. The idea of an entire group of unknowns just making themselves at home in Beacon Hills has been nagging at his paranoia. But Scott folds his arms over his chest. The shift brings him even closer into Stiles’ space, and Stiles wastes no time in leaning against his side. It’s such a casual touch, not unlike the touches they shared before they were _together_ . But it means something _different_ now. It means _mine._ It means _yours._ “I don’t know,” Scott admits. “They haven’t been causing trouble.”

“Scott, someone’s just been found half dead,” Stiles reminds him.

“Yeah, but there’s no proof that it’s from a werewolf. They’ve never attacked us, or even approached us. We have no idea who they are, other than that they’re Betas and there’s no Alpha with them. Why would they suddenly do something like this-- what, Malia?”

The werecoyote is watching them with The Judging Eyes. Stiles knows them well; he’s seen them far too many times, both when they were dating and not. Usually it means she’s about to be blunt, maybe even callous by polite society’s standards. It’s a beautiful thing to watch, when it’s not directed at you. But now she only gestures at the pair of them, and exchanges looks with the others as if to say, “Can you believe this shit?”

“You’re not serious,” she rumbles. “I thought maybe if you hung around Beacon Hills long enough you’d _regrow your brains_. You’re both idiots.”

“What now?” Stiles asks.

“You’re both _blind_. I’m not spelling this one out for you.” She turns to the laptop, where Allison and the Pups are watching them closely from their separate feeds. “It’s not the Betas. It’s gotta be something else.”

“Then what?” Kira sighs, worrying her lip.

Stiles is sick of not knowing. “I _really_ wish we had our _Emissary_ here about now,” he mutters pointedly.

“Hey,” Mason says, “if you want to come out here and write five papers before next Monday, professor, I will gladly be there. It’s hard enough just to find time to do this long distance.”

Damnit, he hates when Mason is right.

“Okay,” Scott interjects, “look, Mason, we’ll send you the file we already have. And have Parrish send you anything else he finds. You and Stiles can cooperate on the research. Thanks for taking the time for us.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Even after so many years, Mason still seems to get starstruck by Scott. Not that Stiles blames him, really. Scott _is_ a sight to behold when he’s putting on the whole Alpha mantle.

“Lydia, if you sense anything, be sure to tell us right away. Until then, everyone just needs to keep a lookout for anything while Stiles and I take a look at the Nemeton. Just to cross it off our list.” It’s easier said than done, and none of them are comfortable with the idea. Stiles watches as Scott assures them that they’ll keep themselves safe, and mentally tallies up all the ways this can go wrong.

There’s too many to count.

As they’re all getting ready to split, Malia turns to him and Scott. “So why is Boyd telling me to give you a message that ‘if either of you pull that shit on Derek Hale again, you’re gonna regret it’?”

Stiles frowns. “Who?”

“Boyd. Tall. Muscular. Quiet. Went to highschool with us. He works at the autoshop with me.”

“Okay… how does he know Derek?”

Malia’s eyes spark with annoyance. “Idiots,” she sneers, more to herself than them. She pushes past them out the door without another word, leaving Scott and Stiles to stare after her.

“What?” Scott mutters.

“I don’t get it either, buddy.”

 

\--------------------9---------------------

 

Despite all expectations, the Nemeton does not, in fact, come alive (as alive as a magically sentient stump and sapling can be) and attempt to eat them. When he and Scott arrive at the clearing, all is peaceful. No sign of any bloodletting at all.

“Phew,” Stiles sighs in relief. “You had me going there for a minute, asshole.” Wisps materialize as the pair of them wander closer. Stiles bats them away. “You actually had us doubting you for a second. Jerk.” He taps the toe of his shoe against a root, which makes Scott huff reproachfully.

“Stiles, don’t kick it.”

“I barely touched it.”

Scott, ever the more diplomatic of the two of them, kneels down. It’s a pointless gesture, as if the Nemeton’s sentience actually comes from the physical stump. “Things have been strange here recently,” Scott explains to it. “You’ve been acting pretty strangely too. You’ve been calling us here every other day, and showing up in places you shouldn’t. And now someone’s in ICU. We just want to know what’s going on.”

The entire grove resonantes with the sounds of the wisps. “That’s my cue, then.” Stiles steps up the the stump. He offers Scott his hand. “Ready, Alpha?” he teases.

A sunny smile flickers across Scott’s face, and Stiles’ heart soars. This _thing_ with Derek not working out sucked. But _this_ , the spark of warmth and excitement that goes through him just at a smile and Scott slotting a hand into his; that’s something he’d never give up for it. And he’s not imagining the ecstatic trill of the wisps around them as he sets their linked hands against the rings of the Nemeton. The link wells up from the wood as easy as if Stiles were breathing it in. On their first attempts at this, it felt like the incomprehensible spirit of the tree was trying to swallow him whole. Like he was being shoved under ice water all over again, and he may never come back up. But now it feels as soothing as if he were submerging into cool water, and guiding Scott along with him.

 _DEREK,_ is the first thought that comes to mind, so starkly that Stiles thinks it’s his own mind focusing on the man.

 _“That you or me?”_ he asks Scott. The deeper they go into the communion, the less he can tell if he’s speaking or thinking it.

_“Not me. You?”_

_“I don’t…”_  

_SCOTT. STILES._

That impulse is even louder, less human. An image of their hands entwined against the Nemeton’s bark flits into focus. And a wave of happiness so vast that it nearly knocks Stiles out of the tenuous bond still forming.

 _“Oh,”_ comes Scott’s bashful murmur. _“Thank you.”_

_“Yeah, it’s great. Now, why--”_

_HALE._

_“...Come again?”_

_HALE._

Stiles presses for answers, one of the few things he can do that Scott can’t. Not that Scott needs to force anything. The Nemeton _likes him_.

What they get next comes in several flashes. Two figures huddled under the Nemeton’s roots in the dark. The sobbing, gurgling gasps of a girl, blood soaking her clothes, the floor, the boy holding her. His cries as she takes her dying breath. The blood dripping into the Nemeton’s roots, giving it life for the first time in decades.

_HALE. DEREK._

_“Shit,”_ Stiles groans. Scott’s answer isn’t so much verbal, but it coincides with Stiles perfectly on that. The Nemeton knows Derek Hale. _“Okay. Shit. Derek. Yeah. What about Derek?”_

More flashes, this time of Scott and Stiles pulling up to the Sheriff’s Department. _“Save your flirting for Derek.”_

The two of them walking through this very part forest on the way to visit the Nemeton. _“He’s not allowed to be that attractive_ **_and_ ** _smart_ **_and_ ** _wear a uniform, Scott! It’s not good for my fragile constitution!”_

_“No, I’m with you. Have you seen his smile? I feel like I’m going to melt every time.”_

_“No, I haven’t seen his smile, Scott! He only glares like he’s plotting my murder, you lucky dog.”_

_“He smiles at you all the time after you’re done arguing.”_

_“You mean when I’m_ **_not looking at him?_ ** _”_

And a final image, of a wisp dancing in front of the door to the coffee shop where Derek is standing at the counter.

The connection goes utterly silent.

 _“Did it…”_ Scott ventures.

 _“Were we being_ **_set up_ ** _by a goddamn_ **_tree?!_ ** _”_

The Nemeton is solely unhelpful, and sends them image after image of Derek giving them gifts. As if to prove its point. Stiles lets out a string of curses that has Scott cringing both mentally and physically.

 _“What about the hiker that got hurt out here?”_ Scott persists. _“What about all those times you called us here because something was in the territory?”_

This time the answer is more confused than anything. There’s an air of questioning, and then it repeats the images of Derek’s gifts. Of it leading them to Derek over and over again.

 _“It hasn’t got a clue about the hiker, Scott,”_ Stiles hisses. _“It’s been focusing on playing_ **_fucking matchmaker--_ ** _”_

They’re forcefully ejected from the connection. “What the fuck?” Stiles growls, before he realizes the grove has gone eerily quiet. Beside him, Scott’s already tense, his head cocked to better listen. There’s not a trace of any wisps around them. It makes the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stand on end. His hand inches towards the vial of mountain ash he keeps on him at all times.

A twig snaps just outside the clearing. But Scott… well, he doesn’t relax, exactly. But the threatening stance dissipates. And then Derek Hale steps through the underbrush. And Stiles doesn’t have the slightest doubt that the Nemeton is somehow to blame for this.

Scott squeezes his hand, the only thing that betrays just how uncomfortable he is. “Uh, hi Derek,” he tries to greet casually.

At least, Derek looks just as uncomfortable as they are after that night at Sinema. “Scott. ...Stiles. What are you doing out here?” His eyes flick down to the tree. And then resolutely away. Oh hell, this is probably the last place the deputy wants to be, given what they’ve just seen.

So Stiles does what he does best, and lets his mouth run with it. “Oh, you know, just taking a _romantic_ walk through the woods. Decided to stop and look at cool tree stump. Scott was trying to convince me to make out with him on it. He’s such a sap, you know? At twilight and everything.” He lifts their linked hands. “We’re dating now, y’know? He’s even more of a sap than usual.”

Derek’s expression goes pinched. “You… weren’t before?”

“Uh.” Stiles glances at Scott.

“We were… kinda? But we didn’t… it was a little complicated,” Scott supplies. “So… what are you doing out here, Deputy?”

“I’m looking into the hiker who was attacked out here,” he says. “I saw your Jeep parked away from the path and came to investigate.” Scott’s mouth pulls into a frown. A lie, then, Stiles deduces. As if he wasn’t feeling defensive already. “Look,” Derek continues, “it’s going to be dark soon. I’ll escort you back to your car.”

Stiles opens his mouth to tell him off, but Scott tugs at his hand with a sharp glance. They share a look. _Don’t push it_ , says Scott’s Very Serious eyebrows.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Sure. Whatever, man. Lead the way.” He slings an arm around Scott’s waist as they go to follow him out. So maybe he’s feeling a bit vindictive about Derek’s rejection.

Maybe he’s feeling a lot of things, and vindictive is the easiest to deal with.

 

\--------------------10---------------------

 

Stiles has never been good at dealing with his own emotions, okay? For all that he talks, words about his own feelings don’t come easy. Especially not when it’s something that hurts him. And so sometimes, _sometimes_ he gets aggressive rather than talk about shit. Scott’s the one who does the emotional talk. Him? Not so much.

“So you ran out of there pretty fast,” he sneers at Derek’s back. The man falters a step, but it’s the only indication he gives at being affected by the accusation. They’ve been making their way back to the cars for a while now, and the forest has grown dark around them. “What happened, you leave your car running? You see a ghost? Or maybe you were just too much of a coward to stick around.”

“Stiles,” Scott warns.

“ _Maybe_ ,” Derek shoots back, “I just didn’t like getting felt up by a couple of drunken idiots.” There’s a sharp edge to his voice, harsher than their usual banter. He’s touched a nerve.

“Right, sure, whatever. We weren’t drunk, dipshit. And you’d made it pretty damn clear what you wanted from us. So what, was it just to get us all receptive to the idea and then you just throw us out like last week’s garbage?”

Derek stops mid-stride, and turns abruptly on heel. “The _hell_ are you talking about?” he snaps.

Stiles thinks nothing of getting up in his face. He hears Scott sigh in exasperation somewhere behind them, but ignores it. He needs this. “I’m talking about your little gifts, _Derek._ Flowers, expensive leather jackets, picking up cafe tabs? Your little Valentine tokens of _undying affection?"_

There’s a mile long list of reactions Stiles expects to that. The flush and the genuine confusion that goes across Derek’s face, though? Not one of them. “ _What?_ ” It’s practically a yelp. Or as close to a yelp as Stiles has ever heard leave Derek’s mouth.

“The… the Valentine’s presents…?” he stammers.

Scott finally steps closer to them. “Derek…” he coaxes. “Did you mean the gifts to be uh… declarations?”

“I…” It’s a no. Stiles can see it on his face. They’ve made a _serious_ misstep somewhere. Shit.

“Okay,” Scott says soothingly, the same way he always does when there’s suddenly a lot of anxiety in one place - usually from Stiles. “Okay. Let’s… we can talk about this when we get to the cars, okay?” No one answers. “We have to talk about this,” he insists. He takes them each by the hand, holding tighter when Derek almost flinches away. “And not fight over it. I don’t want to fight--”

Scott turns, and nearly walks straight into a thorny branch. With a gasp he leans back, away from it before it takes out an eye. His face is bleeding when he turns, dripping steadily from a cut on his cheek that Stiles knows has already healed.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” Stiles exclaims. “Let me see.” He crowds close, hoping to shield the cut from Derek’s view, and cups Scott’s face in his hands.

“I’m fine. It just startled me.”

“Well, it scared the shit out of me! What the hell kind of tree is this?” He glares at the offending branch, which has the biggest thorns Stiles has ever seen. “I’ve never seen something like this in the Preserve before.”

“Neither have I,” Derek agrees softly.

Stiles studies it, disliking how the branch is just hanging there at shoulder height. He reaches out without thinking, maybe to bat it away, maybe to rip it down.

And shrieks when it snaps out, coiling around his arm and digging its thorns into the sleeve of his hoodie. “What the _fuck!!_ ” he shrieks. It’s pulling him in, squeezing his arm tighter and _what the fuck trees should not do that holy god._ Hands are on him within seconds, pulling him in the other direction. His hoodie rips, pain lancing up his arm as the thorns dig in.

There’s a flash in the corner of his eye, thorns leaping towards his throat.

Scott’s claws swipe through the branch, ripping Stiles free before he ends up impaled. With a jolt, Stiles realizes it’s not just his blood that’s oozing down his arm. The limb is bleeding as well. _Actual_ blood dripping from the wood faster than any sap. The smell of metal fills his nose. Bile rises in his throat. “Nope. No, no, no, get off,” he rambles, shaking his arm and wincing when it only makes the thorns slide in his arm. Wide hands enter his view, holding him still and deftly removing the offending _devil branch_.

Oh, shit. Right. _Derek._ Very _human deputy, hasn’t got a clue_ Derek.

The fear of the having to walk yet another human through the supernatural is nothing compared to the fear that chokes him when he looks up.

There’s a thorn stuck straight through Derek’s shoulder just above the clavicle, far too close to his jugular for Stiles’ heart to take. Derek sways on his feet for an instant. “Oh my god. Oh my god, _Scott!_ ” He’s grabbing Derek by the uniform shirt before his brain catches up, thoughts scattered by the way blood is pouring from around the thorn. “Scott, he’s hurt!” The splintering of wood echoes off the surrounding trees. “Scott!” he calls again. The Alpha is shifted into his Beta form, snarling like a beast and swiping at any branch that comes close. From back here, Stiles can see the the tree whipping about, more like tendrils than branches. It’s bleeding where Scott keeps snapping off limbs, blood pouring onto the ground in the sickening pitter-patter of a bloody rain.

“Why did we have to run into the fucking _Whomping Willow--_ I hate this fucking town,” Stiles bemoans. His emergency mountain ash is in his hands in an instant. “Scott, get back!” As soon as Scott leaps clear, Stiles let’s the pull take over. The mountain ash flies from the vial, a storm cloud of guided magic. A shriek, an honest to god _shriek_ , comes from the tree as the mountain ash swirls around it. Once the circle is formed, it keens and thrashes against the barrier. But it holds fast.

They can’t breathe a sigh of relief, however. Derek is still leaning back against the nearest (safe) tree, face pale and hand hovering above the thorn stuck in him.

“Oh god,” Scott whispers. The Beta form melts away, leaving only a hesitant, fearful expression. They go to kneel beside Derek, hands hovering in unison, unsure. “What do we do?”

Stiles licks his dry lips. “We can’t pull it out. He could bleed to death.”

“But what if that… that thing had something in it? Some kind of venom or… or something. It could be killing him if we don’t.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Still here,” Derek reminds them.

Stiles flails his hands at Scott, silently asking for help. “Derek,” Scott begins cautiously. “Do you feel any numbness? Or have trouble breathing?” The other man shakes his head. “Okay, we’re going to take you to the hospital then-- no, don’t!” He lunges forward as Derek’s hand closes around the barb, tugging it out in one sharp motion that makes Stiles feel faint.

Derek grits his teeth against the pain, and his eyes flash blue. Bright, electric blue.

The only sound in the clearing is the tree striking the mountain ash barrier. The gush of blood from the puncture wound slows within seconds.

“You’re a--”

Stiles shoves himself to his feet. “ _You’re a werewolf._ Seriously?!” The tree shrieks. “ _You shut up!_ I can’t believe this.”

Scott hovers at Derek’s side as the man - the werewolf! - climbs to his feet. “You’re one of the ones I’ve been feeling?”

Derek shrugs ever so helpfully. “Yes. But we’re not here as a threat.”

“We will be the judge of that, thanks,” Stiles spits. “Seriously, this whole time-- you know what, no. I’m calling Mason when we get to the cars, so we can figure out what to do with _this thing_. And then you’re telling us exactly what you’re doing here, and why you’ve been giving us gifts. Got me?”

The older man nods slowly. Scott, the traitor, pats Derek’s arm.

 

\--------------------11---------------------

 

The second they get to the road, and to signal, Stiles has a Very Serious Conversation with Mason. “I’m telling you, Mason, sentient monster tree. What the fuck. I’ve got it ashed in, but it’s not going to stay that way forever. That won’t keep humans from wandering close to it.”

_“Well, thorny, maneating tree isn’t exactly a lot to go on.”_

“It was a demon tree that screams and bleeds when you hack its branches off. That’s all I’ve got, Mason. I didn’t exactly stop to look when it was trying to stick us full of giant thorns!”

Mason’s silent for a few moments. Stiles paces in front of the cars. _“It bled? That kind of sounds like uh… what was it called…”_ Papers shuffle around a bit. _“A Jubokko.”_

“A what now?”

 _“It’s a Japanese_ _yōkai. We covered them in my East Asian Mythologies class. A tree that feeds off human blood. It uh, it’s supposed to crop up on old battlefield sites, where the blood soaked into the soil.”_

“Mason, I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re on the other side of the planet from Japan. And not exactly on a battlefield.”

 _“But… aren’t we, though? Stiles, Beacon Hills is like… the biggest supernatural battleground in the US in recent history. And don’t forget about Oak Creek. And who knows what else in the past.”_ Stiles has to concede that point. _“Look, we can figure out how to deal with it tomorrow. Are you guys okay?”_

Stiles glances to where Scott and Derek are leaning against the Jeep. Their clothes are splattered with blood, both the tree’s and their own. Stiles’ own hoodie is ripped nearly to the shoulder, but at least the scratches have scabbed over. “We’re okay,” he says slowly. He thinks about telling Mason about Derek _the werewolf_ , but thinks better of it at the last moment. “We’re going to head home for the night.”

_“Okay, man. I’ll talk to you soon.”_

“Bye, Mason.” He hangs up, and scrubs his bloody hands on his jeans. No one says anything for a second.

“I told Derek we’d take him back to his place,” Scott confesses.

Great.

At this point, Stiles is too worn out to argue. The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving him bone weary. He shrugs, and doesn’t wait for them before climbing into the Jeep.

The ride to Derek’s place is just one big awkward silence that Stiles doesn’t know how to break. Every time he glances up, he can see Derek in the rearview mirror. He’s still beautiful, even pale and blood-splattered, and Stiles _still wants him_ . But he’s still confused. And pissed. And a little bit scared. And wants _answers._

“Derek?” Scott asks, as if he’s been reading Stiles’ mind. “Can you answer some questions now?”

Derek sighs. “I guess.”

“Okay. How long have you been a ‘wolf?”

Derek blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that one. “I was born one. My family, most of us were.”

Stiles curses. “The _Hales_ were a Pack of werewolves?” A thought hits him. “Is that why they…? And Laura Hale too?”

“The Argents,” Derek offers without further explanation. He doesn’t have to. The answer drops like a lead weight. They’ve all had to deal with Argents, it seems.

“Can you tell us why you’re in Beacon Hills? Why you came back?”

The werewolf looks away from them, and takes a deep breath. “My Pack… I used to be an Alpha after… everything, but I gave it up when I almost lost my Pack. But we’re without an Alpha now and I can’t-- _I can’t_ do that to my Betas. So I thought I’d petition to join yours.”

It isn’t the first time they’ve had werewolves come to worm their way into their Pack. But it’s the first time Scott has ever seemed so pleased by the idea. “You picked me? Us?”

“I’ve… I’ve heard a lot of good things about the McCall Pack.” Oh no. Now _Derek_ sounds bashful. This can’t be happening.

“What about the gifts, dude?” Stiles asks.

The blush is creeping up under his beard. Damnit. “Those were… I thought it’d be a good place to start, instead of just approaching you. It’s tradition to offer the Alpha a gift and I thought… why not the Emissary too?”

“Uh. Not the Emissary. Sorry,” Stiles tells him. “I was just on the phone with our Emissary. I’m just the dude that can talk to a very specific sentient tree.”

“You can do more than that,” Scott protests.

“Oh, I can do _so much more_ , baby~,” he teases with exaggerated sweetness, unable to resist. “But those gifts were awfully specific.”

“It’s tradition,” the Beta defends. “Useful things. Food. If you were receptive I would invite you to dinner next.”

“That…” Scott worries his lip. “That sounds a lot like dating, Derek.”

There’s no denying that Derek is blushing now. “In hindsight…”

So he didn’t even want them. At all. “Great,” Stiles grumbles. His heart feels like it’s in his feet. “That’s just _great_."

 

\--------------------12---------------------

 

Derek’s “place” turns out to be the creepiest fucking building Stiles has ever seen. It’s nicer on the inside, at least. But that doesn’t make Stiles feel _any_ better about the bird-cage elevator that takes them to the top floor. Derek takes them into the penthouse loft, an industrial space that could actually be nice in the daylight and with a bit more personal effects. As it is, it just looks… spartan. Like Derek’s been reluctant to make a home here.

That’s not something Stiles is ready to think about.

They stand awkwardly in the entryway. The silence hangs heavy between them.“Derek, were we over the line when we… came on to you at Sinema?” Scott asks at last.

Oh no. No, _no_ , Scotty don’t do this. “Scott,” Stiles warns.

“We have to ask, Stiles. He said the gifts weren’t--”

“Scott, do you really think he’s going to say no when playing interested will get him into the Pack?” It comes out harsh, accusing. Less like he’s worried about Derek’s actual consent and more like he’s sure Derek is going to use them. Both are valid concerns, but one of them is easier for him to handle right now.

The way Derek’s hackles rise is actually visible. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” he snarls.

“Well, someone has to say it, Derek!”

“Don’t accuse me of shit just to make yourself feel better!”

“Stop, stop, both of you!” Scott jumps between them, arms raised. “That’s not what I meant. Stiles, you need to chill out. I know this is… complicated.” Stiles shrugs, chastised. He shoots Derek an approximation of an apologetic frown. Derek just frowns back, but the anger in it has cooled. “Derek, Stiles has a point about something. However you answer, it won’t change how we decide to let you or the others into the Pack. I promise, it won’t. But we have to know, if you… if anything that happened that night was something you didn’t want.”

The new expression that takes over Derek’s face is… something Stiles has never seen before. It’s so hesitant and open. Vulnerable. Stiles can actually see the emotions going through his eyes. In the worried furrow of his brow. The pinch of his mouth. “You’re dating each other, so...”

The both of them perk up, because that is the most hopeful non-answer they could’ve asked for. “Yeah,” Stiles grants. “But you… too?” Very smooth, Stiles.

“Too,” Derek repeats. “Like… together?”

Scott and Stiles share a look, finding courage in each other. “If you’d like to?” Scott proposes. “We could… we do like you. We could try?” He takes a step closer, looking up at Derek with pleading eyes.

It takes the werewolf a while to answer. “I uh, I think I’d like that…” He ducks his head with a hesitant smile.

“Yeah?” the question pops out of both of their mouths. Scott’s smile is that sunny, rainbows and puppies smile that makes Stiles heart pound. And in combination with _Derek’s_ … oh god, he can’t take it.

“Yeah. Can I,” Derek’s smile widens, “Can I kiss you?”

Scott blinks. “Which one?” And, neither of them can seem to make the decision, instead just staring at each other in _unbearable sexual tension_. So Stiles steps forward, places a hand between Scott’s shoulders, and shoves him into Derek. They fall into each other with a gasp, that quickly goes muffled as Derek dips his head to kiss him.

They’re… they’re beautiful. Stiles steps around to better watch them, mouth dropping open. The moonlight is pouring through the huge windows at the end of the loft, painting them in soft white light. Like some kind of werewolf-based erotica cover, holy shit. Scott has his hands gripped in Derek’s shirt, pulling Derek down just as the other man is tugging him in with hands around his waist. The first kiss parts with a slick sound that has excitement jolting through Stiles’ belly. They gaze at each other for a moment, awed. God, it’s so fucking sweet.

And then Derek glances over at him, eyes warm. His heart does a dizzying flip. “Come here,” Derek beckons. He opens his arm to Stiles.

“Oh. Oh?” Stiles opens his arms as he goes forward. “Are we doing a little group hug action-- oh.” He’s pulled in by both of them the second he gets close. It’s Derek that closes the gap, kissing him so soundly that his knees buckle for an instant. The moment is sweetly broken, when Scott pecks him on the cheek. Stiles pulls away, laughing softly, and presses a chaste kiss to Scott’s smiling mouth.

“Stay tonight?” Derek asks.

Scott waits for Stiles to nod before grinning. “We’d like that. And maybe… we can make you breakfast tomorrow?” He leans in to nuzzle at Derek’s throat. And Stiles does not miss the way he his eyes flutter shut this time. “Then we could meet your Pack?”

“I’d like that,” Derek murmurs.

Stiles smirks. “I’m down for all of it as long as we get a shower first.” He actually manages to show restraint, and doesn’t insinuate anything about _how_ they’ll be showering.

And then Derek has to go and do it for him. “Hmmm,” the Beta hums, “my shower _is_ pretty big. And so is the bed.”

“Well, I’m sold.”

Scott bites back a laugh, and nudges them towards the door at the far end of the room. “Come on, you two.” They move as one for the bathroom, already tugging at each others clothes. Anything to get these bloody clothes off - and see more of his new boyfriends. Boyfriends? Oh god, that sounds nice.

“Ohhhh, are we gonna puppy pile after?” Stiles jokes. “Maybe a _naked_ puppy pile?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” they answer in unison.

Oh yeah, he could get used to that.

 

\--------------------13---------------------

 

When Scott’s eyes flutter open, it’s not because he’s almost uncomfortably warm or tangled up in the sheets and the limbs of his fellow bedmates. It’s not because of the morning sun streaming in through the huge windows by the bed either. No, all of those things exist, but what actually wakes Scott up is the telltale buzz of his senses that always comes with a wisp’s echoing chimes. His first instinct is dread, given what the Nemeton has put them through for weeks, and he cautiously looks up through his lashes.

The wisp is floating high above the bed, flitting around the rafters and pipes, its musical little voice almost a coo as it watches them. The moment it sees Scott awake, it spirals down towards him with a sound that’s so low and rumbling that it’s nearly a purr. “Morning,” he whispers as it drifts to a stop above the bed. “Everything okay?”

It purrs at him again, visibly trembling with the force of it. Scott… _thinks_ that’s a yes, at least. It’s not until the wisp starts bobbing around them, trilling merrily, that he realizes the Nemeton is _checking_ on them - and is apparently very happy about what it’s found.

“Yeah, we worked it out,” Scott says softly. “You don’t have to play matchmaker anymore...” He trails off at the end, struck by the picture his bedmates make beside him. They look so peaceful now, with Stiles half splayed across Derek’s side. The previous night was a blur of kisses - so many kisses - and wandering hands as they showered the last of the blood and dirt off them, and climbed into bed. There was a bit of squabbling as they got comfortable, with Stiles’ need to shift restlessly until he fell asleep. The pair of them have entangled themselves, with Derek clutching Stiles to his side. Scott has somehow managed to escape their hold during the night, and he sits up to study them - both with ruffled hair and sleep soft faces.

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, Scott decides.

He loses track of just how long he watches them sleep, basked in the morning sun. But when he looks up again, the wisp is gone and the room is just a little bit brighter than before. Scott laughs softly to himself, both elated and embarrassed about how far gone he is over the two of them already. Stiles snuck up on him, in that steadfastly unpredictable way that Stiles always does. But he never expected to fall this hard for Derek, or quite this fast.

Scott settles back down into the bed, biting his lip as his eyes drift from Stiles to Derek. His fingers itch to reach out and touch, to card his fingers through the man’s soft-looking chest hair and follow it downwards beneath the sheets. If it were Stiles, Scott wouldn’t hesitate. But it’s not _just_ Stiles anymore and this is frighteningly new and Scott doesn’t know where Derek’s boundaries are. This is, literally, _day one_. He has no idea.

He compromises, taking Derek’s hand in his, just taking the time to play with his fingers and trace the lines of his palm. His fingers work up his wrist, his arm, feeling the tendons and muscles and the softness of his skin. Scott keeps his touches light, gentle, so as not to wake him. He hesitates before stroking a over the sharp line of his jaw and up into his hair. He smiles as Derek sighs in his sleep and relaxes further into the bed. The lines between his brows have smoothed out, and Scott can’t help but lift his hand to caress the space where they usually are.

And so he feels it when the tiny wrinkle returns, in the instant before Derek’s eyelashes flutter. Scott pulls his hand away just in time, but not fast enough to cover up the fact that he was watching Derek sleep. “H-Hey,” he greets softly.

The other man blinks a couple of times, and then arches a brow at him. “What were you doing?” he asks, his voice rough.

“Nothing?”

“Hmm.” Derek doesn’t even say anything, and yet he says _so much_.

Scott flushes and murmurs, “I was… just thinking how beautiful you look.” He’s not imagining the slightest tinge of pink that steals over Derek’s face. “And I wanted-- I didn’t want to do anything until you were awake.”

The sweet affection in Derek’s eyes melts into sharp, wicked knowing. “Yeah? And now…?”

“Now um, can I kiss you?”

Derek tilts his head against the pillow. “ _Just_ kiss me?”

“Maybe more?” Scott smiles sweetly. “If you want to.”

Rather than speaking, Derek only crook a finger at him, beckoning him forward with a hint of a smirk. And Scott goes, helpless to do anything else but obey. He meets Derek halfway, a little too eager as their lips come together, and his nose bumps against Derek’s. He laughs shyly, and tips his head at a better angle for the second kiss. The other man doesn’t seem to mind. Derek is all nuzzling and playful nips that melt into hot, lingering kisses that make Scott shiver.

He finally gets to let his hands wander, fingers drumming gently against the sharp line of Derek’s collarbone on the way down. His chest hair is softer than he expected. Scott rubs his fingers through it, taking a private thrill in the texture and the feel of soft skin and firm muscles beneath. He wants to follow the trail of dark hair down his body, but pauses, unsure. He likes this - Derek breathing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, big hand cupped around the back of his neck, pressing closer, arching up into his hands. He doesn’t want to ruin this for anything.

As if sensing his moment of turmoil, Derek shifts, taking Scott’s hand in his own and guiding it beneath the sheets pooling at his waist. Scott cranes his head up to watch, mouth dropping open as Derek shamelessly leads his hand to his cock. There’s a smirk being pressed against his throat; a nose bumping against his jaw in silent urging.

Derek’s already half-hard, twitching when Scott gets his fingers around him, muffling a whisper of a moan into his neck. Scott turns his face into Derek’s hair to hide his grin, fingers gently stroking along his length - learning, familiarizing. It’s teasing, and Derek seems to grow tired of that after a few minutes, growling and shifting closer. “Move it, McCall,” he demands through gritted teeth. “Touch me or don’t.”

He shivers. The thought of making Derek stay still while he teases him until he _begs_ is a delicious one. But… now isn’t the time for it. Later, he promises himself. Definitely later. Just watching Derek arch and make tiny little pleased noises as he strokes firmly is exciting enough. He twists his hand on the next upstroke, and feels the faint pressure of teeth at his neck, hesitant, pleading. A not-quite human rumble bursts from his throat, and he cranes his head up a bit more to let Derek sink his teeth in. The edge of pain only sharpens the ache burning in his belly. And it’s nice, it’s so nice that he can have this, that he can share this in a way that’s a little more than human. Just like it’s sometimes nice to be reminded that he’s _still_ human with Stiles.

And then--

And then there’s a snort from the other side of the bed, a twitch, and then a sleepy whine.

“You started without me.”

Scott’s hand freezes mid-stroke. And despite Derek’s huff of displeasure, they both peer over to find Stiles doing that pout/glare combo he always has when he’s indignant. “Morning, sleepyhead,” Scott teases.

“Hmph. Don’t do that.” His boyfriend - _their_ boyfriend if this works out - rubs the sleep from his eyes, a discontented twist to his mouth. “Don’t give me sweetness and sunshine when you’re being a _filthy traitor_. It’s not gonna work.”

If anything, that only makes Scott smile sweeter.

“I said no! It’s not working.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Derek grouses between them, “either do something or _both_ of you can stay here and argue while _I_ take care of this.”

Stiles switches gears without even waiting a beat, eyes sharper as they flick from Derek’s face down the length of his body. “Well, _someone’s_ demanding this morning. Are you always this sour when you’re getting your dick touched?”

“Only when someone is ruining it by running his mouth.”

Scott speaks up before he can stop himself. “Believe me, there’s other things Stiles would rather be doing with his mouth right now.” Because there’s no mistaking the gleam in Stiles’ eyes.

“Well,” he confesses, “you’re not wrong.” Without any further invitation, Stiles kicks the sheets out of the way and slides down between Derek’s splayed legs. It’s not until he makes himself comfortable and hungrily eyeing the other man’s - pretty, it’s a very pretty dick, okay? - cock that he hesitates. “Uh, this is okay, right?” Stiles asks, his fingers nervously tapping along Derek’s fuzzy thigh.

Derek… seems to be torn between want and pure frustration, because he makes a cut-off sound that’s not even close to an answer. “ _You_ \-- _Ye--_ ” he swallows audibly. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Scott translates the scoff Stiles makes at that. Stiles doesn’t seem to want to dignify it with an actual answer. “He does,” he tells Derek softly. He rests his forehead against Derek’s temple. “He _really_ does. Sucking dick is, like, his favorite thing.”

“One of,” Stiles corrects, and then leans forward and closes his mouth around the head of Derek’s cock. The sound Derek makes is more akin to a gurgle than a moan, the muscles in his thighs jumping. Stiles is watching his face as his mouth works around the head, the corners of his plush lips curved wickedly.

Scott used to think there was nothing sexier than watching Stiles with his mouth spread wide around his dick. Now it comes in _very close second_ to watching him suck Derek’s. Because now it there’s the added bonus of watching Derek gasp and strain not to writhe and fisting a hand in the sheets. Like he’s trying so hard to be polite. Or to not come the instant Stiles starts swallowing him down. It’s sweet, really. Scott catches Stiles’ eyes with a grin, and reaches over to gently untangle Derek’s hand from the bedsheets.

“It’s okay,” he croons. He leads Derek’s hand down to Stiles’ fluffy bedhead, unconsciously mirroring Derek’s own action minutes earlier. It takes barely any encouragement at all to get the other man to tangle his fingers in the fluffy, flyaway strands, and only the slightest bit more to get him guiding Stiles into a rhythm Scott _knows_ his boyfriend loves. Stiles’ moan is muffled around the dick in his mouth, but the way his hips roll against the bed is a clear enough sign. “He likes it when you get a hand on him, see?”

“ _Fuckkk_ ,” the Beta hisses. His teeth have gone a little fangy. “I’m not--” He chokes, as Stiles makes a desperate little sound and presses impossibly closer.

He’s grinding his aching cock against Derek’s hip, Scott realizes, searching for any kind of relief he can get. Stopping takes… a lot more willpower than he’s willing to admit. Fuck, watching them is _too good_ . He leans over and presses a kiss to Derek’s panting mouth, swallowing the whimper that leaves it. “You gonna come soon?” he breathes. “You can. He loves it.” Scott glances down to where Stiles is almost frantically bobbing his mouth along Derek’s length, making needy little sounds that do _nothing_ to help his own throbbing dick. He’s not sure who’s setting the pace anymore - Stiles or the hand in Stiles’ hair.

“I want you to,” he continues without thinking. “I wanna taste you on him when he kisses me after.” Saying it brings a possessive thrill, makes his blood sing _mine_. He doesn’t realize his eyes have flashed red until Derek keens and his eyes burn blue in response.

And that’s all Derek can take. The tension in his body snaps, and it takes both of them to keep him from arching off the bed as he comes with a strangled gasp, unable to even find his voice as orgasm crashes over him. Stiles works busily between his legs, happily suckling every last drop until Derek cries out and shakes in Scott’s arms.

It’s beautiful. Even more beautiful than Scott imagined it would be. He presses sweet kisses to Derek’s mouth, whispering praises to him. And then laughs as he’s abruptly ripped away and thrown onto his back onto the bed, Stiles crawling up his body with a devious gleam in his eyes. His laughter is smothered by Stiles’ mouth the next instant, the man wasting no time in licking into Scott’s mouth. The bitter salt taste of Derek is heavy on his tongue, something that should probably be gross in most other circumstances. But right now it has Scott rumbling in satisfaction, grasping the back of Stiles’ head so he can chase the taste around Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles is rutting against his hip, smearing precum everywhere and whining impatiently at him. It’s no surprise that sucking Derek off got him so hot. Stiles loves it. Scott’s going to show Derek someday; see if they can make Stiles come just from using his mouth over and over again. Just thinking about it sends a spike of pleasure through him, so hot that his toes curl in the sheets.

And then Derek’s larger frame is pressing up against his side, and Stiles is shifting clumsily to get a hand around them both, long fingers just barely getting around the girth of them and Scott’s moan is muffled against _someone’s_ lips. He quickly loses track of whose mouth and whose hands are on him. Everything is burning, his body rising to meet them, thrusting erratically up into the tight grip of Stiles’ hand. It smells like sweat and sex and _them_ and it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever experienced. So it’s almost a shame when the heat coils tight in his belly, when his body can no longer take the stimulation and comes. His sob is as much disappointment that this can’t go on forever as it is in pleasure.

Over the bloodrush he can hear Stiles gasping “Scott, _Scott!_ ” as if it’s a prayer, hear Derek rumbling in sated happiness. Stiles’ body crashes onto the bed beside him, leaving the three of them basking in the sex-heavy silence and the sound of their racing hearts.

His stomach is a mess. There’s even come on his chest. He’s going to smell like both of them for weeks.

And he really, _really_ likes that thought.

“You’re actually happy about being covered in jizz,” Stiles mumbles at his shoulder after a while. “ _Werewolves_. So gross.”

“You’re the one that came on me.”

“And you’re happy about it. You’re welcome.”

Beside them, Derek snorts. But he looks content when Scott swivels his head to peer at him. The lines of his body are even more relaxed now, the tension drained out of him. His face and shoulders are flushed pink in the afterglow, his lips shiny and swollen from too many kisses and Scott just wants to roll over and rub up against him - make sure _he_ smells like the both of them for weeks too.

Stiles smacks his shoulder, breaking him from his thoughts. “We need to shower and do the breakfast thing.”

“Right!” Scott flails a bit trying to sit up. “Breakfast. But uh… definitely shower first.” Now that he’s moving he feels… sticky. Okay, now it’s gross. Stiles nods and tumbles loose-limbed from Derek’s bed, offering a hand to pull him up. Derek watches them go, brows furrowed.

“You don’t actually have to make breakfast…” he says.

“Yeah huh,” Scott and Stiles protest simultaneously.

“We said we would,” Scott elaborates.

“Yeah, but--” Derek doesn’t get the chance to finish, because Stiles swoops down and plants a kiss to his lips, and the second he steps away, Scott follows suit.

“We’ve got like… three Valentines to payback. A _romantic_ breakfast is a good place to start.”

“They weren’t _Valentines!_ ”

“Okay,” Scott hedges, “then we can prove we can _provide_ for our new Beta. How’s that sound?” He smothers a grin as Derek quiets, going just the faintest shade of pink.

“Right,” Stiles barrels on, “so _we_ are going to take a quick shower. And then _you_ are going to take a nice, long, hot shower, while we surprise you with breakfast. And whatever else we decide to do after, yeah?” He nudges Scott to get him moving, not even waiting for the other werewolf to respond. Not that he seems to. Derek gapes at them as they stumble towards the bathroom, speechless.

They manage to keep it together until they’re safely locked in Derek’s bathroom with the sound of the water to cover their voices, and then break into identical grins.

“Once he’s the shower, you start figuring out what we can make from what he’s got and I’ll run down the block for some flowers. You can text me with anything missing,” Scott whispers gleefully.

“Yeah. _Yeah._ Maybe get some candles too--”

“For a romantic breakfast? Wouldn’t that be a little too--”

“Okay, too cheesy. Right. But some mood lighting.”

“ _Definitely_ mood lighting. We can use those room dividers he’s got to block out the light from the windows.”

“ _Fuck_ , yes, like romantic breakfast nook. We’ve got this, dude.” They fist bump as they step into the shower. “Let’s go woo the pants of Deputy Gorgeous!”

“Technically we already got him out of his pants,” Scott says impishly.

Stiles rolls his eyes, and leans in to kiss him, long and deep. “So we’ll make him put some back on, _and then_ woo the pants back off him,” he rasps.

His heart flutters in excitement. “I like that. Yeah, let’s do that.”

 

\-----------------------------------------  


**End. Walk on, Traveler of Worlds.**


End file.
